


The Stocks

by Shadowed_Aura



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Canon, Arthur is a bit of an Angel, Bullying, Could be read as Gen or Slash, Crying, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, I was feeling really angsty, M/M, Merlin is probably a tad OoC, No Violence is by Arthur!!, Trigger Warning: Emotional Abuse, Uther is a jerk, Why Did I Write This?, canon AU, trigger warning: bullying, trigger warning: physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowed_Aura/pseuds/Shadowed_Aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stocks usually weren't so bad. Merlin would go and do his time and, at the end of the day, be released to go home. Sure, he'd have food in his hair, but it wasn't a big deal. This wasn't supposed to happen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stocks

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, seriously, this is the most angst-ridden thing I have written in my entire life. I like writing happy and fluffy things where everyone goes home content, but this one wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. If you missed the warnings in the tags, I'll repeat them now: Bullying, and Emotional/Physical Abuse. I also decided to rate this as 'M' since this work is more than capable of bringing up bad memories for people.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Merlin, which includes characters, story, locations, and anything else affiliated with the project.  
> Language Disclaimer: Also, I am nowhere close to being from the UK, so the characters may use language non-native to the area in which they live.

The stocks.

Always with the stocks.

Merlin found himself there a lot these days. Drop a dinner plate? Stocks. Accidentally take a tumble down the stairs, and dent Arthur’s armor? Stocks. Be late returning to the castle, because the herb Gaius needed was deep in the forest? Stocks. It seemed Merlin had rotten fruit (and the occasional rock from particularly vicious children) thrown at him more often than he actually spent at his duties.

Of course, Arthur thought Uther’s punishments were a perfectly reasonable application to his supposed offenses, despite Gaius’ plea to the contrary. Arthur had even taken a swing or two with a tomato himself while walking through the lower town square. Merlin found it particularly difficult to wash the bits of food out of his hair on those nights; Arthur never missed. Then again, Arthur had always helped him escape after a fair few jibes at Merlin’s ‘obvious need for rescuing, and really, Merlin. I don’t need distressed damsels with you around.’ Merlin had always laughed along with the Prince, and they’d gone about their day of friendly insults and work.

It hadn’t been that intolerable until the few times after that. Uther had caught on to Arthur’s less than stellar escape planning and placed a new guard at the stocks when Merlin was sent there.

The first time, Arthur had taunted Merlin, as usual, and gone to the side of the stocks only to be halted by the unapologetic guard who insisted he was on strict orders from the King to keep Merlin there until nightfall. He’d smirked when Arthur had stomped away in a huff; Merlin hoped it was to find his father and plead Merlin’s case, or at least demand the release of his manservant – the wine stain on Arthur’s robes really had been an accident, after all. Instead, Merlin had to spend the rest of that day wading through rotten fruit and the occasional cabbage. The worst part had been the new guard’s, whom he now knew to be Sir Cain, gleeful sneer whenever a projectile hit Merlin particularly hard.

The second time, after Arthur had half-heartedly tried to get him out, Sir Cain had joined in on the game of ‘hit Merlin with a tomato.’ When it was just the children, Merlin hadn’t minded. They rarely actually hit him with anything, and when they did, it was never lastingly painful. Not that he could say anything if it had been, but Sir Cain’s throwing arm was much stronger, and much more accurate, than a child’s.

Merlin had gone to Arthur’s chambers that evening with a newly formed bruise on his right cheek. When Arthur had asked about it, teasing Merlin for bruising so easily all the while, Merlin had shrugged and said one of the children had got in a lucky hit. It probably wouldn’t happen again.

The third time Merlin was sent to the stocks, Sir Cain had pulled the shackles around Merlin’s wrists hard as he dragged him through the castle to the square. Merlin bit his lip to waylay the pained whimper he felt rise in his throat. The guard had once again taken up throwing things along with the other spectators, but Merlin couldn’t help but feel that the activity had turned truly malicious. Sir Cain threw tomatoes, yes, but he casually slipped in rocks as well. One managed to cut Merlin’s upper eyebrow, causing him to hiss at the sting of blood running into his eye. Merlin’s magic had risen at that one, but he’d forced it down and hung his head despondently. Merlin had left the stocks that evening battered, bruised, and with a massive headache. He’d told Arthur that he’d fallen down the castle steps again, but Merlin didn’t miss Arthur’s faint look of suspicion as he turned to finish his work. He just wanted his bed.

After that, the encounters in the lower square became significantly worse. Each time, Sir Cain would push just a little more. He’d taken to simply hitting Merlin himself whenever he passed by and, by the end of the day, a large bruise would color Merlin’s shoulder and upper arm. With each hit, Merlin felt his magic rise up in defense. And at every cuff, he had to force the magic down for fear of being discovered a Sorcerer. That would be worse than just taking whatever punishment Sir Cain doled out.

Defending himself with words was useless. Every time Merlin tried to speak up, Sir Cain would interrupt him with a swift hit wherever he could reach. Even if Merlin said something about the treatment to someone else, no one, especially the King, would take the word of a servant over the word of a Knight. It simply wasn’t done.

And Arthur never came back. Not that Merlin expected him to.

When Merlin managed to stay out of the stocks for a little over three weeks, Sir Cain took to cornering him near the servant’s quarters, and other deserted areas of the castle, and throwing him up against the wall. He would call Merlin names, tell him he didn’t deserve his life in Camelot, kick his shins, tell him he was worthless, pull his hair, smack him across the face, hit him where he could, and then go on his way. Merlin took to avoiding any deserted hallways, and he caught himself watching over his shoulder far more than once.

On one of these occasions, Merlin had been in a hurry and forgotten to check the corridor for people before scurrying down it. It had been a mistake. Sir Cain had grabbed him, dragged him into an alcove, and slammed him against the wall, making Merlin’s head crack against the stones. The Knight had told him he was undeserving of his life, spat in his face, and delivered two breath-stealing blows to his ribs, and one to his face, before dropping him onto the flagstones like a sack of potatoes and stalking away. Merlin sat there for a long time, breathing in gasps, not bothering to move.

In fact, he sat there so long that Arthur came looking for him, instantly spitting out insults about Merlin’s work ethic as he stomped forward. Dazedly, Merlin scrambled away from the oncoming footsteps, unknowingly letting out a whimper and placing a hand to his ribs in his hurry to back away. Arthur was angry. Angry was bad. Angry meant pain, right?

Arthur froze in the hall, a scant few feet from Merlin’s place in the corner. Merlin watched, eyes wide, as Arthur’s features softened, but his cool blue eyes remained hard. Arthur lowered himself to his knees. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to get his sentence out. His voice was flat.

“Merlin, what happened?”

Merlin didn’t answer. Anything he said would just land him with another bruise anyway.

Arthur obviously wasn’t privy to that information though, because he slowly scooted forward until he was directly in front of Merlin’s knees. He took in Merlin’s hunted expression, scanning over his manservant’s obvious injuries, and sighed heavily.

“Let me rephrase,” he said. “Who did this to you?”

Merlin actually felt his lips close tighter, pressing into a thin line. He shook his head minutely, but Arthur saw the movement and his brow furrowed.

“Merlin, I can’t help you unless you tell me who did this. I’m not as stupid as you believe me to be. You’ve not smiled in over a week, you don’t joke with me anymore, you go about your duties constantly looking over your shoulder, and if you mess up, you fix it so fast I would swear you were using magic if I didn’t watch you do it by hand.”

Merlin ceased breathing at that last bit, but Arthur kept going:

“So tell me what happened. I need to know so I can make certain that it never, ever happens again. I don’t care _who_ it is. I’ll deal with them myself, and my father will never hear a word of it. I promise.”

Merlin felt his shoulders relax a little from their defensive position. He knew Arthur was safe, wouldn’t hurt him, but the little anxious voice in the back of his head was steadily over-powering his resolve to say anything. He shook his head in the negative.

Arthur bit his lip hard, probably biting back a scathing reply to Merlin’s refusal. Merlin watched interestedly as Arthur forced himself to swallow his words.

 _He must really be worried to actually think before speaking_ , Merlin thought distantly.

Arthur moved a bit closer while Merlin mused.

“Don’t you trust me? You know I am a man of my word, so why –”

Merlin couldn’t stop himself from interrupting. “It isn’t that, Arthur.”

“Then what?”

Even though Arthur was trying his hardest to maintain eye contact, Merlin looked away, cheeks going red, but the words rising in his throat burned and came out anyway. “I can’t defend myself. I should be able too. It’s my fault that I’m so weak. I should be able to take care of myself. Protect myself.”

Merlin could feel Arthur’s shocked silence. No doubt Arthur was thinking of all the times he’d teased Merlin about his incompetence with weaponry and making himself feel guilty for not offering to properly train him. Merlin buried his face in his hands, fighting back useless tears, still refusing to meet Arthur’s steady gaze.

Moments passed, and Merlin jumped when he felt a warm hand pressing gently against his bruised cheek. He looked up, surprised at the gesture, and saw Arthur hovering just inches from him, his own expression a mixture of pain and determination.

“Merlin, I agree that you should be able to care for yourself.” Merlin flinched away at that, but Arthur followed his movements and continued. “However, you forget that this is _home_. You shouldn’t _have_ to defend yourself from attacks here. The castle is not the battlefield. That is the point you need to understand. Your home is supposed to be where you can feel safe, and that is the exact opposite of how you’ve been acting lately. I didn’t quite put it all together, but I understand now. And I’m furious, Merlin. So furious.” He brushed a thumb over Merlin’s cheekbone and smiled reassuringly. “Not at you, but at whomever has done this to you. Made you feel this way. I don’t want you feeling like the castle, here with _me_ , isn’t where you belong.”

Merlin couldn’t have stopped the flood of tears that followed Arthur’s words if he’d wanted to. He also couldn’t have stopped from flinging himself at Arthur, wrapping his arms securely around Arthur’s neck and sobbing into his shoulder, ignoring the flaring pain in his body.

Arthur held him, murmuring soothing words and hesitantly running his palms over his back, careful of Merlin’s left side.

It took a good while for Merlin’s sobs to degrade into soft hiccoughs, but Arthur’s grip on Merlin never loosened, even when Merlin finally slumped into Arthur’s lap.

“Thank you,” he croaked, laying his head on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur squeezed him softly. “It’s the truth.” He hesitated a moment, before placing a swift kiss to the top of Merlin’s head. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you or if you left. I seemed to have failed you miserably on one account. Help me at least put it to rights?”

Merlin had barely heard anything else Arthur had said after he’d felt the faint pressure of lips in his hair, but when Arthur shifted so he could see Merlin’s face more clearly, he was forced to process the rest of what Arthur had said.

Biting his lip, Merlin ducked his head again. “It was…Sir Cain.”

Arthur stiffened noticeably. “I see.” A beat. “He will be dealt with. For now, tell me everything.” Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur cut him off. “I mean it, Merlin. Everything,” he spoke curtly, jaw taut.

Merlin nodded numbly, gripped Arthur’s dark red tunic in one hand, and began his unhappy story.

* * *

 

Hours later, Merlin found himself curled under the warm covers of Arthur’s bed, nearing sleep, when Arthur strolled back into his chambers. He sat up and gazed blearily across the room at Arthur.

“Arthur, what did you do?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows innocently. “What needed doing, of course. It’s fine.”

He undressed quickly, surprisingly so without Merlin’s assistance, and slipped into his nightclothes before lifting the covers and pulling Merlin to his side.

Mindful of his ribs, which Arthur had insisted be wrapped by Gaius earlier, Merlin curled into Arthur’s warmth, sighing contentedly for the first time in months.

“Fine,” he said, yawning. “I believe you.”

Arthur ran a hand through Merlin’s messy black locks. “Sleep, Merlin,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right in the morning.”

Merlin allowed a small smile to grace his features before floating into the warm dark of sleep.

* * *

 

And Arthur was right. Sir Cain got his orders to travel to the far north encampment the very next morning after being rudely awoken by Sir Gwaine, who made sure to pat the man too many times, and none too gently, on the back and speak too loudly while he announced the news. And if any of Gwaine’s jarring enthusiasm happened to irritate Sir Cain’s many new injuries, Gwaine couldn’t bring himself to worry over it. In fact, his thinly veiled malice made Sir Cain leave faster, if anything. Gwaine simply nodded in satisfaction and a passing thought hoped the bastard was attacked on the road.

**Author's Note:**

> It's over! Everyone okay? Despite my not really liking this one, I wanted to share it. I know, right? Like our poor fandom isn't emotionally scarred enough from how BBC Merlin ended anyway, but I apparently felt the need to add to it. Thanks for the read though! Kudos and/or comments are always well loved! (I'd actually really like to know how I did with the angst, so if you've got the time, I'd appreciate any input!)


End file.
